Robbery had not been the object of the murder, for nothing wastaken. Was it politics, then, or was it a woman? That was thequestion which confronted me. I was inclined from the first to thelatter supposition. Political assassins are only too glad to do theirwork and to fly. This murder had, on the contrary, been done mostdeliberately, and the perpetrator had left his tracks all over theroom, showing that he had been there all the time. It must havebeen a private wrong, and not a political one, which called for sucha methodical revenge. When the inion was discovered uponthe wall, I was more inclined than ever to my opinion. The thingwas too evidently a blind. When the ring was found, however, itsettled the question. Clearly the murderer had used it to remindhis victim of some dead or absent woman. It was at this pointthat I asked Gregson whether he had inquired in his telegramto Cleveland as to any particular point in Mr. Drebber’s formercareer. He answered, you remember, in the negative.
I then proceeded to make a careful examination of the room,which confirmed me in my opinion as to the murderer’s height,and furnished me with the additional details as to the Trichinopolycigar and the length of his nails. I had already come to theconclusion, since there were no signs of a struggle, that the bloodwhich covered the floor had burst from the murderer’s nose inhis excitement. I could perceive that the track of blood coincidedwith the track of his feet. It is seldom that any man, unless he isvery full-blooded, breaks out in this way through emotion, so Ihazarded the opinion that the criminal was probably a robust andruddy-faced man. Events proved that I had judged correctly.
Having left the house, I proceeded to do what Gregson hadneglected. I telegraphed to the head of the police at Cleveland,limiting my enquiry to the circumstances connected with themarriage of Enoch Drebber. The answer was conclusive. It toldme that Drebber had already applied for the protection of thelaw against an old rival in love, named Jefferson Hope, and thatthis same Hope was at present in Europe. I knew now that I heldthe clue to the mystery in my hand, and all that remained was tosecure the murderer.
I had already determined in my own mind that the man whohad walked into the house with Drebber, was none other thanthe man who had driven the cab. The marks in the road showedme that the horse had wandered on in a way which would havebeen impossible had there been anyone in charge of it. Where,then, could the driver be, unless he were inside the house? Again,it is absurd to suppose that any sane man would carry out adeliberate crime under the very eyes, as it were, of a third personwho was sure to betray him. Lastly, supposing one man wished todog another through London, what better means could he adoptthan to turn cabdriver? All these considerations led me to theirresistible conclusion that Jefferson Hope was to be found amongthe jarveys of the Metropolis.
If he had been one, there was no reason to believe that hehad ceased to be. On the contrary, from his point of view, anysudden change would be likely to draw attention to himself.
He would probably, for a time at least, continue to perform hisduties. There was no reason to suppose that he was going underan assumed name. Why should he change his name in a countrywhere no one knew his original one? I therefore organized myStreet Arab detective corps, and sent them systematically toevery cab proprietor in London until they ferreted out the manthat I wanted. How well they succeeded, and how quickly I tookadvantage of it, are still fresh in your recollection. The murder ofStangerson was an incident which was entirely unexpected, butwhich could hardly in any case have been prevented. Through it,as you know, I came into possession of the pills, the existence ofwhich I had already surmised. You see, the whole thing is a chainof logical sequences without a break or flaw.
“It is wonderful!” I cried. “Your merits should be publiclyrecognized. You should publish an account of the case. If youwon’t, I will for you.”
“You may do what you like, Doctor,” he answered. “See here!” hecontinued, handing a paper over to me, “look at this!”
It was the Echo for the day, and the paragraph to which hepointed was devoted to the case in question.
“The public,” it said, “have lost a sensational treat through thesudden death of the man Hope, who was suspected of the murderof Mr. Enoch Drebber and of Mr. Joseph Stangerson. The detailsof the case will probably be never known now, though we areinformed upon good authority that the crime was the result of anold-standing and romantic feud, in which love and Mormonismbore a part. It seems that both the victims belonged, in theiryounger days, to the Latter Day Saints, and Hope, the deceasedprisoner, hails also from Salt Lake City. If the case has had noother effect, it, at least, brings out in the most striking manner theefficiency of our detective police force, and will serve as a lessonto all foreigners that they will do wisely to settle their feuds athome, and not to carry them on to British soil. It is an open secretthat the credit of this smart capture belongs entirely to the wellknownScotland Yard officials, Messrs. Lestrade and Gregson. Theman was apprehended, it appears, in the rooms of a certain Mr.Sherlock Holmes, who has himself, as an amateur, shown sometalent in the detective line and who, with such instructors, mayhope in time to attain to some degree of their skill. It is expectedthat a testimonial of some sort will be presented to the twoofficers as a fitting recognition of their services.”
“Didn’t I tell you so when we started?” cried Sherlock Holmeswith a laugh. “That’s the result of all our Study in Scarlet: to getthem a testimonial!”
“Never mind,” I answered; “I have all the facts in my journal,and the public shall know them. In the meantime you must makeyourself contented by the consciousness of success, like theRoman miser—Populus me sibilat, at mihiIpse domi simul ac nummos contemplor in arca.